I am 30 in two months. Growing up, I wanted three kids by 30. Even at 25, I thought I wanted at least one kid by 30. I am so glad this didn’t happen.

Babies and kids are popping up all around me. Right now, I am happy being child free and can’t imagine giving up my current life for the added responsibility of another human being. I say I would maybe like to have one kid by 35, but it’s just something I say. Do I really believe it? 35 because that’s a good age to have a baby, right? Really though, I don’t know if I actually want to have a kid or it’s just that we’re brought up being told that having children is what you’re meant to do.

We’ll see what happens. Maybe in a year I’ll get the maternal instinct. Or maybe once I reach 35 I will still have no immediate desire to reproduce.

I don’t know if I’m cut out for pregnancy. I have so much respect for all mothers. I don’t know if I could do it myself. I really don’t know if I’m tough enough to endure nine months of pregnancy, let alone the actual act of giving birth and then the sleepless nights of the first year. The thought of doing all that terrifies me.

I’d like to think that I’d be a cool mum. Whatever that really is. In reality, I’d probably be a clingy and suffocating mother that just worries constantly about her child. I see how attached I am to my cat and chickens, I worry what being a mother to an actual human would do to me. Maybe I’ll just stick to animals for now.